Chasing Shadows
by MidnightWhisper7
Summary: Oneshot. They have become strangers.


**Chasing Shadows

* * *

**

"Or with thy mind against my mind,to hear

nearing our hearts' irrevocable play -

through the mysterious high futile day

an enormous stride

(and drawing thy mouth toward

my mouth,steer our lost bodies carefully downward)"

- e. e. cummings

* * *

Holmes does not attend the wedding. His excuse, which arrives by mail the morning before the wedding, explains that he has taken ill with a fever. Watson knows that a quick visit would confirm the falseness of the note, but he decides to let Holmes be.

"It is a pity that your closest friend will be unable to attend," Mary says politely when he tells her the news at luncheon. She is only saying it for his benefit: she has no great love for Holmes, as much as she tolerates him. For a moment he wishes to correct her—Holmes was never his _friend_—but the words stick in his throat like molasses. Is there any other word for what they are, what they were?

He jokes instead (ignore the blurred lines, evade the question): "A wedding would be too joyous an occasion for him. I don't believe he could stand it." Mary looks at him, and there is something in her honest green eyes that he cannot immediately identify. The corner of her mouth quirks in a smile, and then she looks away. In moments like these, he wonders how well she really knows him. She can interrogate him with one gaze more than Holmes could ever do with words.

Watson takes a sip of his tea, and it burns his tongue. He longs to open a window. Tomorrow will be happy, he decides. He should be glad that Holmes will not be there to intrude on his union with Mary.

The steam rises from his teacup, forming meaningless shapes in the air: he thinks of Holmes smoking, sitting back on the sofa with his shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows, the machinations of a case turning in his mind.

Watson hears the violin as he ascends the stairs of 221B Baker Street. It sounds like coming home. He hesitates at the closed door of Holmes's room, like a stranger. He knocks. The playing continues. Holmes must know he is here.

The door squeaks when he opens it—he makes a mental note to get it fixed before remembering that it is not his business any more. He lifts a hand to remove his hat just as the notes fade away. The room is smoky, the shades pulled together to shut out the late afternoon light. However, the space is far cleaner than the last time he was there, and the fire is burning brightly in the hearth, throwing moving shadows across the floor. Books are stacked in relatively neat columns against the wall, dust was cleaned from the paintings, and even the fireplace looks as though it had been scrubbed. The bullet holes in the wall have been covered over.

Finally, as though drawn by gravity, his gaze rests upon the man he has come here to see.

Of all the expressions he had expected to see on Holmes's façade, a smile was not one of them.

"Watson," he says, smiling in a quiet and serene manner. "Please do sit down, take off your coat." He gestures toward the chair with his bow.

Watson refuses the second offer, as though removing his coat would somehow mean that he belonged here, though he does take a seat in the leather chair that he once claimed for his own.

Once he has stopped being overcome by the sensation of being here again, he takes a moment to survey the great detective's appearance.

"You look well," he says, with some difficulty. Holmes is shaven, dressed in a gray shirt, braces, and trousers that appear much cleaner than usual. It is possible that he has even been to the barber. In the dim light, Watson cannot tell if this vision is real or illusory. The words he wants to say are lost to him. Better to stay with these simple, meaningless pleasantries. Safe.

"I feel a great clarity in my mind," Holmes says, oblivious to Watson's remark, "as though all avenues of thought were open to me. Indeed, it appears your absence has been most beneficial."

Watson has no logical explanation for why he finds this so offensive. However, he is reminded of the time he and Holmes first met. He was so intrigued and absorbed by the enthusiasm and mental energy this man possessed. The moodiness came later, after it was too late for Watson. He was already captured. If he isn't careful, he will be caught again.

"You have a new case, Holmes." He knows the man well enough by now to understand that this energy can only be for one purpose.

Holmes turns away, settling into a familiar pace as he speaks. The shadows swallow and then lose him. He is a ghost, in this room that feels like good-bye.

"You remember our case of four months hence," he says lightly. This is a statement of fact. "I have been preoccupied with the most curious personage of Professor Moriarty. As yet he has not revealed himself, though he may be working through other, less obvious agents."

"What will you do when you learn what he is after?" Watson asks.

"What else?" Holmes shrugs. "I will stop him." Watson has become so used to thinking of Holmes as childish, irresponsible. Holmes's quiet confidence reminds him why he has let this go on for so long.

Holmes does not say "we" this time. There is no question in his voice that he knows he will be alone. Watson doesn't know how he feels about this.

"Tell me what you know about Moriarty." He can't stop himself from asking. His curiosity will be the death of him yet. Holmes obliges, as he always does.

"The most significant detail I've gathered," he says, having set down his violin and bow, "is that Moriarty was aware of my, er, association with Miss Adler. Or, soon to be Mrs. _Norton_, I should say."

"She is engaged?" Watson asks. He does not believe Holmes capable of such a human emotion as love, but even so, he supposed they would embark on some sort of doomed relationship.

"Yes," Holmes replies, and for the first time there is an edge to his voice. "To return to the topic of Mr. Moriarty, I have no doubt he will reveal himself soon. The man keeps himself in shadow, but his goals cannot be hidden for long. He will want us to seek him out." He pauses, brings a finger to rest against his lip. "I believe, dear Watson, I have met my adversary."

Holmes's attention is away from him now. Once, Watson would have shared in Holmes's revelations. He had been so impressed by the detective's thought process. As time went on, he saw a darker side to Holmes, and realized that his patience would not hold much longer. That was when he met Mary.

"Moriarty fooled us once," Holmes concludes. "I will not allow him to do so again." Watson finds himself smiling, despite it all. Holmes still has his pride. It was this utter conviction that caused Watson to admire him, long ago.

Watson recognizes the signs: he knows he will be drawn in if he stays here much longer. His journals attest to his inability to remove himself from Holmes's influence, despite greater happiness and wellbeing without him.

"Well," he says, opening his pocket watch for emphasis more than any need to see the time, "I wish you luck in this case. Don't work yourself too hard." He picks up his walking stick, turns toward the door, like a man about to run away. It is like being at war again, only this time the enemy is himself.

Holmes is nodding into the corner. He inhales, appears to draw into himself. He is all tight shoulders and nervous hands. Holmes is looking him over now, hazy brown eyes making observations and assessments.

"Wedlock suits you," he says quietly, as though the words are painful to him. "Though I perceive that you hesitated for some time outside the door of this house." He nods to the mud on Watson's boots.

"I was not sure if you would want to see me," Watson admits. He has always found it difficult to lie to Holmes.

"Please do give Mrs. Watson my best wishes, Doctor." Holmes smiles again, places a hand to his heart and bows. Watson can find nothing to say to that. Holmes has dismissed him. They never found it easy to talk about these things.

As he leaves, the words he wanted to say ring in his ears. Holmes is doing well, and that is all that matters. He has to keep telling himself that, at least.

Holmes listens to Watson leave, coming undone with the sound of every step.

* * *

"A night full of talking that hurts,

my worst held-back secrets. Everything

has to do with loving and not loving.

This night will pass.

Then we have work to do."

- Rumi

* * *

Mary passes away on a Sunday, two years after their marriage. She was a religious woman, and she goes with a peace and courage that Watson has never seen. She was strongest while her body was at its weakest. Watson goes into isolation for days, only removing himself from his quarters for the funeral. He considers closing his private practice and moving to the country.

Instead, he goes to Baker Street.

Holmes opens the door before Watson is even halfway up the stairs this time. The newspaper is opened to the obituary page.

For once, Holmes does not say anything, and Watson is grateful. Hands pull at his coat, remove his hat, steer him toward the sofa. He does not protest. The stuffing on the sofa is coming out, and it smells of tobacco. It is the only place in the world that matters right now.

He falls asleep to Holmes playing violin. It is the saddest thing he has ever heard, burrowing deep inside him. He cries into the pillow, caring and not caring that Holmes can hear him. He has not cried for many years, not since his first night treating the wounded during the war. Too much, so little he could do. Holmes continues playing. Watson wants to hate him for it, for doing this to him. For everything.

They don't talk much the next few days. Watson goes back to work, his time once again falling into a predictable rhythm. Order takes effort, and he cannot allow himself to lose it again.

On a rainy night in September, they fall back into a familiar rhythm, as if Watson had never gone. It is only a temporary stay, he tells himself. He keeps the trio of Greek figures company by the window, watching the patterns the rain forms on the glass, and also watching Holmes. The detective smokes a pipe and scratches notes to himself on a pad of paper. Occasionally he'll frown, strike a line or two, bite the corner of his lip, and start again.

"Come to the Continent with me, Watson," Holmes says, suddenly. His eyes look tired.

"This is sudden."

"It is a matter of the greatest urgency," Holmes insists.

"Moriarty?" Watson asks, but Holmes shakes his head. "No mortal enemy could scare me away so easily," he says, somewhat arrogantly. His shirt hangs off his slender frame.

"Are you ill?" Watson asks. The stubble has begun to grow on his friend's cheeks again. Holmes sits back, runs a hand through his hair.

"Ill, maybe. You won't find a fever, however." He laughs. "You see, Watson, but you do not observe." He passes a hand over his eyes.

"Holmes, I don't have time for this." The anger rises in his voice.

"You came back, didn't you?" It is unfair, and Holmes is fully aware of the pain Watson is still feeling.

"All I wanted," Watson says, rising from his chair, "was a chance at a normal life! You wouldn't understand, would you?" He leans to the window and presses his hand against the cool glass, looking away.

"No," Holmes mutters. "I suppose I never will."

Something in his voice makes Watson look at him again. He wonders if he has ever really seen Holmes like this. It strikes him that Holmes is vulnerable. For all the harsh words he has spoken against friendship, Holmes is a man who has felt loneliness.

"You can't understand what Mary meant to me, Holmes," Watson says. His heartbeat has quickened. His leg is aching him again.

Holmes gives no answer. He gives Watson a long, slow look. A sigh.

"In the morning," he says, turning away. There is a flash of lightning, illuminating the tall man. For a moment, he looks like a spirit, a pale imitation of a human. "We can talk about this later. You need to rest."

For once, Watson allows his will to be dominated. He passes by the ladder leading to Holmes's bed and walks to the doorway. Something is happening, he realizes. This night was not the start of it.

When he sleeps, he dreams of falling through a cloud of smoke. 


End file.
